


the thunder of guns tore me apart

by crocs



Category: Avengers: Infinity War (2018), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Infinity War spoilers, M/M, Post-Movie, The Major Character Death is for the ones in the movie, Wakandan Sunsets are the most beautiful kind of sunset, stevethor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 16:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocs/pseuds/crocs
Summary: The son of Roger breaks off.He shifts and looks dully and grimly into the distance. The heavy blue armor that he wears — though not as durable and fluid as what once was Asgardian armor — moves with him alike to a fish following the tides of the seas. The sunlight shines cold through his hair. It does not touch his eyes, or his expression — they are cold enough already.





	the thunder of guns tore me apart

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Marvel.

Though Thor does not know exactly what time it had been, when Steven had sat next to him and asked after his thoughts in exchange for a Midgardian penny, the sun in the sky had just begun to make its downward descent towards the horizon. The process had painted violet, red, yellow and orange hues on the horizon.

It would have been a beautiful sight — for it was clearly one of the most awe-inspiring Midgardian sunsets he had ever seen — if not for the sand and the dust and the foot soldiers littering the fields below the guest bedroom's window.

He takes his time to carefully weave his answer.

"All of my people," he begins, surprising himself with how coarse and rough his voice is, "all of their history. My planet. The All-Tongue. All lost. All gone. Asgard is lost."

He takes a moment to think and shakes his head. "No, Asgard is me, and only me. I do not think, Steven, that I can be Asgard by myself."

Steven, to his credit, does not look pained. He does not wince, or offer a shoulder in sympathy, or pity — the Widow had done that, twice already this sun-around, and it, for lack of a better phrase, did not gel with the Odinson.

"I woke up one day," says Steven, and the words are heavy on his lips, "and the world had changed. They told me the war was over. I'm not sure yet. All I know is —"

The son of Roger breaks off.

He shifts and looks dully and grimly into the distance. The heavy blue armor that he wears — though not as durable and fluid as what once was Asgardian armor — moves with him alike to a fish following the tides of the seas. The sunlight shines cold through his hair. It does not touch his eyes, or his expression — they are cold enough already.

"All I know is Bucky's gone. He was all I had left." Steven's hands uncurl from their fists. Thor notices, absentmindedly, the small, red half moons that dot his palm. "He was all that was left of where I grew up, where I came from. That's lost too. To time, not Thanos, but — I can understand how you feel."

Thor clasps him on the shoulder. It is much softer than his usual camaraderie with Steven. He slowly moves it down to rest on his teammate's back. "Maybe we should be lost together, Steven," he muses. "You and I, relics of another day, another place."

"I think," Steven grimaces, his back leaning into Thor's hand and moving his head to rest on Thor's shoulder, "that might be a great idea, Thor."

Thor moves closer to Steven, allowing the tired man to rest his weight on his side. The Captain's heels on his boots make an almost inaudible sound as they brush against the Wakandan soil. The God of Thunder contemplates this as the wind tries to wipe the hair from in front of his eyes and the mud from his cheek.

He decides not to dwell on it. There are some things that a King (even a King with no followers, no subjects, no people, no brother, no place to rule) does not need to know.

If this Vibranium was as precious to the people as magic was to Loki, or as seeing and protecting the way of life was to Heimdall, then who was he to ask after it and its secrets?

He focuses on the half-healed crescents on the pads of the Captain's hands instead. He watches them as they seal up and disappear like they were never there.

But they were, and Thor knows firsthand that they will stay imprinted in Steven's mind for a long while afterward.

"There is no need to worry, Captain," he assures, voice as low as Quill's on the ship. He wonders how he is. If he survived. "For we _will_ persevere and get our friends and comrades back."

Steven looks at him, hope breaking out from the blue of his eyes like his brother from the dungeons so long ago. "How?" He asks, his breath held.

"I do not know yet," Thor admits, "but we shall… as you say on Midgard, _figure it out as we go_."

The Captain snorts. It is, Thor decides primly, decidedly not graceful. "Thanks," he recovers. "Great plan, Thor."

"This is why you are the master strategist, son of Roger," Thor states. He gestures around him with his other hand.

"This... Dora Milaje," he starts, deliberately, to change the subject of conversation. "They remind me of the stories I grew up with as a child. Those of the Valkyrie. I know one personally," he adds, proudly.

Steven's golden-thatched hair and beard glimmers in the sunset as he turns. "We don't have those stories on Earth. Er, Midgard."

"I will have to tell you some, then, Son of Roger," Thor decides. "Especially the one that features myself and Banner."

"Call me Steve," the Captain requests, as he lets the end of Thor's almighty cape settle on his shoulders too. "Please."

The ' _we've known each other for too many years for any name otherwise_ ' goes unsaid, but Thor does not need the awesome ability of the Allspeak to understand.

The Asgardian almost wants to refuse. He wants to tell Steven that he has earned his many names and titles well — Steven; a given name of English and Greek origin, _garland_ , _crown_ ; Captain, a high ranking officer in an army of any Midgard-influenced population; America, the land of the free and the brave. He wants to tell him that he does not need to hide behind shortened names, for he has a shield to hide himself if he so chooses.

Then he thinks about Star Lord, and the Man of Iron, and the Black Panther, and Jane — oh, Allfather, was Jane alright? — with her doctorates. He knows now, Thor does, that names can be forged and chosen and worn and discarded and celebrated at will.

Thor, the Thunderer, the Odinson, the Crowned Prince and rightful heir of Asgard, the god of Lightning, Donald Blake, the Worthy, and a hundred other titles, glistening and glimmering like ruby jewels, knows that he has made less kind names for himself that he does not usually acknowledge.

The beauty of Midgard, he reflects, is that he does not have to.

"That would be most agreeable indeed," he says, instead, as they watch the newly-warm sun lower together and feel it wash over their armor, "most agreeable indeed, Steve."

— 


End file.
